


Eccentric

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Chemicals, First Time, Kink Meme, M/M, Massage, Masturbation, Virgin Sherlock, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, you get turned on watching me successfully apply your methods. Oh, and I’ve just done it again.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eccentric

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Eccentric /Dr. Watson的X爱指导课堂](https://archiveofourown.org/works/506204) by [Miss_Octopus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Octopus/pseuds/Miss_Octopus)



 

This is a fill for [this prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/13188.html?thread=74691716#t74691716): _Sherlock has never done ANYTHING (Not even with himself) and thinks it’s all kind of dumb, but then someone shows him that it’s awesome, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Emphasis on the “what are these feelings” please._ (Click the link to read the full prompt.)

This is also a fill for [this prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=84217749#t84217749). Click the link to read the prompt; it’s a little more dub-conny than my fic actually turned out to be. 

This is also a fill for [this prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=86400790#t86400790). Click the link to read the prompt: OP asked for John giving Sherlock a full-body massage.

  
  
  
  
**0.**

  
John spent a full minute gazing into the refrigerator before deciding, _No, I’m not actually hungry, I’m just bored_. He closed the door and turned to leave the kitchen, and Sherlock was _right there_ , having moved up silently. 

He was now blocking John’s path to the sitting room, and in the space of an instant, had inflicted upon John the breathlessness that comes with suddenly, unexpectedly finding oneself the object of another’s desire. John hadn’t thought himself particularly sexy fifteen seconds ago, in his pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt so worn it was nearly transparent. But the way those eyes moved over him and drank him in, he got a shivery, self-conscious feeling, like he was a pleasure-slave groomed and trained to fulfill any and all carnal whims, and he’d just been delivered to a very pleased (though indecisive) Sherlock.

Sherlock managed to visit this exhilaration upon John without either of them moving a muscle, save for Sherlock’s eyes, which did not dart in any sort of rapid, haphazard way but rather stabbed with slow, methodical precision, all over John’s body.

And then the moment was over. Sherlock stepped aside and let John pass, continuing, himself, to his bedroom.

 

 

** 1. **

  
John was never certain if it was safe to pick up the dish towels from the kitchen table barehanded, or to put them in with the rest of the laundry. There was only one wadded up there today. He leaned down and sniffed it; it did not have any kind of foul or chemical odor, so he pinched it between two fingers and flung it into the basket. 

He looked down the corridor and saw that the floor in front of Sherlock’s door was bare. John had reminded him several times that today would be laundry day, and if he didn’t want to be disturbed this evening, to pile anything he wanted to include outside his room. It couldn’t be that he didn’t have anything.

John knocked on Sherlock’s door.

“Come in.”

“Just doing laundry,” John called. “Have you got anything?”

“I said come in.”

“Lazy sod, wants me to pack it out,” John muttered to himself, and opened the door. There was no dirty laundry, or if there was, John couldn’t be blamed for not noticing it; he was distracted by the sight of Sherlock in the bed, flat on his back, completely naked, masturbating.

Perhaps John allowed himself to look for a second too long, but he made up for it by snapping his head up to stare at the ceiling as he said, “You know, the reason I knocked was to give you the opportunity to refuse me entrance if you were doing something private.”

John continued to avert his gaze, but he still heard the subtle, slightly moist sound that Sherlock was making with his hand.

“You’re perfectly aware of that,” John went on, “and you granted me entrance anyway, which must mean you wanted me to see you doing this.”

The rhythm of the sound sped up. John kept his chin up, making a face that no one could see.

“And upon hearing me make that deduction, you speeded up your stroke...so, you get turned on watching me successfully apply your methods. Oh, and I’ve just done it again.”

This time, Sherlock made a soft little sound when he exhaled; John heard it clearly.

“In fact,” he looked Sherlock directly in the face now, “I’m going to say that this was not a coincidence at all. You knew I would be doing the laundry tonight, and you purposely did not put yours outside your door so that you could lure me in here.”

Sherlock lifted his head, just enough to nod toward the foot of the bed. “Sit there and watch me,” he instructed.

Any aversion or trepidation John might have felt was overwhelmed by his curiosity as to how this would turn out. He sat on the edge of the mattress, still keeping both feet flat on the floor, as if that would prove, to anyone who wanted proof, that John was not fully committed to this situation.

“Does it actually turn you on to hear me make deductions?” he said.

“Not as much as it’s turning me on that you walked in on me doing this, and now you’re staying to watch.”

“Typical. You never could decide which you liked better: when people act slightly less stupid than usual, or when they treat you like everything you do is brilliant and fascinating.”

“Your observations are getting simpler, but no less accurate.” 

Now that John was watching a bit more carefully, he noticed that Sherlock’s technique was somewhat perfunctory, possessing none of the finesse or expertise that graced every other aspect of Sherlock’s existence. He was just pulling monotonously at his cock as though he’d learned from a textbook, and a dry textbook at that.

Still, the sight was not without its charm. Sherlock was acknowledging his own body, giving it pleasure. John found this uncharacteristic and endearing.

“I think I’m going to finish now,” Sherlock said. “Is that alright?”

John tilted his head. “Don’t know why you’d ask my permission.”

“I’ve not done this in front of someone else before. I don’t know what the etiquette is.”

“Pretty certain the etiquette for ‘dealing with someone who lures others into watching him have a wank’ is ‘prison,’ so why don’t we dispense with formalities and you just do what you like.”

“Finishing” was just more of the same, only wetter. Sherlock made no additional noises, save for a grunt of relief at the very end. 

After a considerable silence, John said, “What now?” 

“Got some things to work on,” Sherlock offered. “Dennis Nilsen’s memoirs arrived in the post today.”

“Pull the other one. I read the papers; those memoirs were confiscated by the Home Secretary.”

“Who do you think sent me a copy?” Sherlock sat up. “But first, what’s the next step with this? I’ve heard it’s customary to tidy oneself with a discarded sock, but I rather think I fancy a shower.”

  
  
  
  
  
**2.**

  
“It’s not an emergency,” John explained. “Drains are just running a bit slow, that’s all.”

“I’ll ring someone about it right away.” Mrs Hudson squeezed John’s arm. “I’m glad you told me before it got to be a real problem. I had a tenant once, let the drain in the basin get clogged, then he left the tap on by mistake just before he left on holiday. Awful mess.”

John was just about to say, “I’m sure it was,” but as he opened his mouth, there was a shout from upstairs:

“John, I’m going to masturbate now! Come up and watch!”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, mostly to hide his blushing, then called back, “Mrs Hudson is right here, and she heard that!”

“If it’s all the same, I’d rather she not join us. No offense, Mrs Hudson!”

“None taken, dear!” She still had her hand on John’s arm, and moved it now to pat him on the shoulder. She lowered her voice and said, “It’s alright, Sherlock’s just one of those, what do you call them…eccentrics.”

John still frowned in the direction of the staircase. “Good thing he’s a genius, or else he’d just be a mad pervert.”

  
*****

  
John found Sherlock just as he’d found him a week previously, his body a straight line, with his legs pressed together, stroking himself in the most unimaginative way possible. Not that John would flatter himself by calling his own wanks imaginative, but his didn’t include an audience.

As it was, Sherlock was actually beginning to bore him. Halfway through the proceedings, if he had a watch, he would have been checking it. But never let it be said that John Watson wasn’t a problem solver. “Do you take requests?” he asked.

Sherlock froze. “Depends on the request.”

“I’d like you to do it slower, so I can see...Yes, like that.” As Sherlock resumed, John was pleased to find him employing a stroke slow enough that he could watch the foreskin being pushed up until it engulfed the head, only to be retracted on the downstroke a moment later, revealing a glans that had become even more flushed and glistening.

The fact that he had issued a command and Sherlock had obeyed filled John with all manner of roiling thoughts. Did he enjoy what had just taken place? Did Sherlock? Was this another one of Sherlock’s experiments? And if so, which one of them was the subject? Was Sherlock trying to tell him something? This last question would have been ridiculous had it been anyone else who had asked John to watch him have a go at himself. But Sherlock had demonstrated time and again that to assume one understood his motivations was a foolish thing.

Sherlock’s rhythm had changed from repetitive to hypnotic, and it took John a few moments to formulate, in his mind, one question that might encompass all his concerns.

“Is this for you, or for me?” he said.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He just ejaculated, as though that would settle the matter.

John was willing to let the philosophical aspect of the situation go, for now, but he did have one practical question.

“Is that all you do, then? Just stroke your cock?”

Sherlock lifted one eyebrow. “That’s what masturbation _is_.”

“Yes, but is that all you do? You have your whole body to play with. Your cock isn’t the only part that feels nice to touch. You don’t even bother to touch your balls?”

“Didn’t occur to me.”

“It didn’t occur to you in how many years of doing this?”

Sherlock’s expression turned quizzical at the word _years_. “I only began this month.”

“You only began wanking this month. What did you do before that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Solved crimes, mostly.”

“I get it.” John said. “This is one of those times where the whole situation and what it means and the direction it’s moving in is very obvious to you, and since it is so obvious to you, you assume it must be apparent to me as well.”

“Yes,” was all Sherlock said in reply.

  
  
  
  
  
**3.**

  
When the message is unclear, try boosting the signal.

John had a look in the linen cupboard and found a beach towel shoved in the back on the top shelf. It suited his needs as far as size was concerned, but it was quite colourful, and didn’t fit the mood he was hoping to create. Instead, he defaulted to the shelves at eye level and grabbed three plain white bath towels.

Sherlock found these three towels when he retired for the evening. They were laid out on his bed, which had been stripped of all but the fitted sheet. 

“What is the meaning of this?” he said to John, who had said nothing but whose presence Sherlock sensed behind him nonetheless.

“Well, you’ve been so kind to me lately, letting me watch whilst you have a wank and so on. I thought I’d do something nice for you in return.”

Sherlock turned and narrowed his eyes at John. “Is this for me or for you?”

“Excellent,” John replied, “we’re on the same page. Now, take your shirt off and lie face-down on the bed so you can get what’s coming to you.”

“What’s this?” Sherlock ignored John and picked up the translucent bottle that John had placed on the bedside table. “Massage oil.”

“Just the shirt off will do, thank you,” John reiterated.

When Sherlock finally complied, John thought he might faint with relief. It had seemed much simpler when he was only picking out the towels. _If history’s most bizarre courtship is what Sherlock wants, then that he shall have_ , he had thought. But facing down an actual living, breathing Sherlock, who was capable of refusing, had filled him with an electric tension that he hadn’t even noticed until Sherlock pulled his t-shirt over his head, dropped it carelessly inside-out on the floor, and placed himself obediently on the towels. That part might have even been stranger than the original surprise wanking. And the next part, the part where John straddled Sherlock’s hips, was the strangest of all.

Naturally, John was more than familiar with every bone and muscle in the human body. He knew precisely where each one was located, how it worked, where it moved. He understood how to touch each muscle to soothe it, or stretch it, and he knew when he was inflicting pain in a bad way, and when the pain was, perhaps, a bit good for it. He was already acquainted with some of Sherlock’s bones: the ones that ached when it was about to rain, and the ones that hadn’t been seen to properly, or soon enough, when they had fractured, and so hadn’t healed quite the way they should have done. By watching Sherlock fence, run, and box, he knew which muscles saw the most labour, and which he was most likely to injure when he overstepped his body’s own boundaries.

John had not yet put his intimate knowledge of Sherlock’s skeleto-muscular system to any recreational use, but he was confident in his own abilities. He began simply by gliding his hands, slick with oil, in brush-like strokes over Sherlock’s back, familiarizing himself with the condition of Sherlock’s muscles whilst allowing Sherlock to relax and grow accustomed to his touch. He could feel Sherlock’s skin warm up as the strokes increased his circulation. Wherever Sherlock’s flesh was not scarred, it was smooth and soft, having never been touched by direct sunlight.

John then graduated to kneading motions, alternating the roll of his knuckles and the dig of his fingertips. He grabbed large muscle groups and squeezed them first with one hand, then the other. He applied transverse friction, moving across Sherlock’s flesh in the direction of the muscle fibers, breaking up knots as he went.

He hacked at Sherlock’s arms. The loose skin around Sherlock’s elbows momentarily fascinated him, being, as it was, the only loose skin Sherlock’s on body. 

John hooked his finger in the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. He’d expected it to be elastic, and intended to give it a playful snap. Instead he found that they were a drawstring style, and so he just tugged lightly, and said, “We’ll have these off as well.” He took his weight off Sherlock to allow him to remove them, but instead Sherlock merely replied, “Be my guest.” He lifted his arse to allow John access to the drawstring.

John reached beneath Sherlock and had a feel, until he found the loose end and tugged at it to release the bow. He thought about letting his hand stray, in case he could detect any hint of arousal on Sherlock’s part. He soon discovered that no such effort was necessary. Sherlock’s erection was beyond any effort at concealment. John brushed its rigid heat as the drawstring came loose. He grabbed the waistband of the pyjamas with a hand on either side and tugged them down Sherlock’s thighs, then repositioned himself so that he could finish the job. 

The sight of Sherlock’s oiled upper body and his dry lower body was too incongruous for John to look upon for long. He quickly set about making the two halves correspond. It might have been his imagination, but he was fairly certain that Sherlock lifted his behind again, just slightly, to meet John’s hands; it seemed that when he dug in to the thick, powerful gluteal muscles, he felt Sherlock’s body lower and make contact with the bed before he felt the muscles themselves give way. He was trying to keep it all business, for now, but if pressed he might admit to lingering a bit longer than was necessary on those particular muscle groups. It was a part of the body where the person delivering the touch could experience just as much tactile pleasure as the recipient. Rubbing Sherlock’s bum didn’t feel so much like work as his knotted-up shoulders had been.

He hacked along the back of Sherlock’s thighs with the blades of both hands. He squeezed Sherlock’s calves. He pushed his thumbs into the soles of Sherlock’s feet, using circular motions to compress all those sensitive points. Only once or twice did he tickle, and make Sherlock jerk.

“Turn over, so I can do your front,” John commanded.

Sherlock turned himself as though it were a monumental effort. 

“Feeling relaxed, then,” John observed.

Sherlock’s was hard, his cock swaying as he repositioned himself.

“I’ll bet that aches,” John said, in the way that one might make an observation about something mildly interesting that just happened on the television.

“It does,” Sherlock replied. “You should massage it as well.”

“Patience.”

Initially, John’s strokes were aimed primarily at the pectoral muscles, but before long he was focusing on the tiny, flat nipples, teasing them between the tips of his first two fingers until each had a little pink peak.

The oil made it easy for his hands to glide naturally about, following the curves and valleys of Sherlock’s body. John had not thought of Sherlock as having a lot of curves, but he was learning now that, in fact, Sherlock had all sorts of delightful contours. The crease inside his elbow, the notch between his collarbones, the concavity beneath his ribcage.

John paid no more attention to Sherlock’s genitals than he had to any other part of him. The moment his palm pressed Sherlock’s cock upwards and against his belly, Sherlock inhaled sharply and let out a moan. But John rubbed him only long enough to thoroughly oil the area, and then moved on.

Having sufficiently oiled and rubbed every part of Sherlock’s front, John decided he’d like to have a go on the other side again, and nudged him accordingly. Sherlock grunted a mild protest, but rolled back onto his belly. John placed himself between Sherlock’s legs, forcing him to keep them open this time.

This time, he began with Sherlock’s knees and worked his way up. He dug into Sherlock’s inner thighs, packed with hard muscle. Every inch of him was hard muscle, in fact, save for his behind, which was hard muscle with a springy layer of fat on top. John did not so much massage as caress, this go-round. He added just enough oil to smooth his touch without making things too slippery. As his palms traveled up from Sherlock’s thighs, he cupped and shaped them around both buttocks, though he did not linger long enough to hold them properly. He watched as the flesh was pushed upwards and then sprung neatly back into place as John’s hands continued up to his lumbar area. 

But unlike before, John was not content to touch with just his fingers. He placed a hand on either side of Sherlock’s hips and lowered himself, as though he were doing a push-up. He was pleased to be that much closer to that lovely arse, and nuzzled it, cheek to cheek, as it were. 

“You are _obsessed_ with my arse,” Sherlock muttered.

“People have been obsessed with nice round bottoms since the dawn of time,” John replied. “I suggest you learn to cope.” To emphasise his point, he gave the crest of one buttock a nip with his teeth.

He wanted so badly to spread those cheeks and get a good look, but he resisted. Instead, he eased two oily fingers into the crease and had a thorough feel, lingering over the little dent. Now the temptation was even worse. 

He sat up again, and took up the bottle to add more oil to just his fingertips. He stroked the insides of Sherlock’s thighs, high up where they met his body, then let his fingers just slide right back into that crevice. 

When Sherlock said nothing, John grew bolder. With both hands, he gently spread those cheeks, just enough to see what he was doing. With Sherlock’s legs spread, he had an excellent view of the last part of Sherlock’s body that he had not seen.

Sherlock had just the lightest dusting of fuzz on his balls and perineum. John’s hand glided close enough to touch the hairs there without actually touching the skin. And then there was the loveliest treasure, the little pink pucker, the beautiful, untouched, most private of entrances to Sherlock’s body. John’s loving caress was made slick by a fresh application of oil. Whilst holding Sherlock open with the rest of his fingers, he softly poked and rubbed at the hole with his index and middle. Each touch began right in the center, then slid outwards, pressing just firmly enough that it might relax the muscle. And indeed, as John repeated this action, Sherlock’s entrance ceased its nervous twitching and appeared to open slightly.

How badly John wanted to put a finger right inside. But why not? If Sherlock didn’t want this, he would say something; the man was not known for being shy about his objection to anything at all. So John pressed with just the soft pad of his index finger--

And was pulled from his reverie by the lowest, softest rumbling.

John froze. His eyes traveled up Sherlock’s midsection, which moved subtly and regularly with each breath. Those were not the breaths of a man who was having his arsehole explored for the first time. Then John recognised the noise for what it was.

“Sherlock,” he whispered. “Wake up.”

With just the slightest sharp intake of breath, Sherlock said, “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“You were.”

“Liar.”

“I heard you snoring.”

“That’s how I know you’re lying. Because I don’t snore.”

“Turn over again.”

“Make up your mind,” Sherlock grunted.

John felt much less hesitation this time about getting Sherlock’s legs spread and having a good look at his undercarriage. He lifted Sherlock’s balls with one hand and resumed rubbing his arsehole with the other. Sherlock wriggled, like he was having a hard time getting comfortable.

“Are you ashamed of this part of your body?” John asked.

Sherlock turned his face away and gave a curt little exhalation through his nose. “It would be stupid if I felt that way, wouldn’t it? Shame accomplishes nothing.”

“Put your hand down here, then.”

John guided Sherlock’s hand first to his cock, and showed him how long it actually was; how it extended beneath and behind his balls to become the soft curve of his perineum. Then, he pushed Sherlock’s hand further back, encouraging him to feel his own arsehole with the tips of his fingers. 

“Doesn’t that feel good?” John said as he directed Sherlock’s caresses.

Sherlock appeared unmoved. “Felt better when you were doing it.”

“Oh? Then I’ll continue myself, if that’s what you prefer.” John pulled Sherlock’s hand back until it was resting over his cock. then he moved his own hand back to play about underneath.

“I’m just going to put the tip of my finger in, alright?”

The oil made it so easy for his finger to slip in; just to the first knuckle. He dipped in and out, and Sherlock squirmed like he was being tickled. He’d extracted what pleasure his simple masturbatory efforts could provide, and had demonstrated this to John, but he had no idea that these pleasures could be expanded upon and elaborated so exquisitely with just a tiny bit more adventurousness.

Sometimes his hand on his cock would speed up as John pressed this way or that way, and sometimes the rhythm would falter, as he focused on squeezing his muscles around John’s finger. Then, there came a point when squeezing those muscles made him want to stroke his cock very hard and fast, and he began to do this.

“Sherlock,” John said, in a tone that was not quite scolding. 

“Mm?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Mm.”

“This time, when you feel like you’re about to come, take deep breaths. Just breathe all the way through it. It will last longer and you’ll feel it through your whole body.”

Almost immediately, Sherlock inhaled sharply. When he breathed out, it was only to force his lungs empty so he could breathe in again. He did this three times, then gave in and moaned, “Oh God. Oh John.”

Sherlock looked down at the ejaculate on his belly as though it were something new to him. But John understood that it was not the result that astonished him, but the means. 

“Was it better?”

“Yes. You were right, I felt it all over. Oh.”

And all John had used was the tip of one finger. He wanted very badly to expound upon the virtues of further penetration, and the rock-hard, still-untended cock in his own trousers was egging him on to do so. But John decided to keep that to himself for the time being. 

  
  
  
  
  
**4.**

  
John returned home one evening to what he thought was an empty flat. The sitting room was quiet and still. He called Sherlock’s name and got no response. He peeked into Sherlock’s bedroom and found it empty. The bathroom was unoccupied. John even had a look upstairs, in case Sherlock had decided it was appropriate to go inside his bedroom for some reason. Nothing.

He wasn’t quite ready for dinner yet, and he had no plans for the evening, so he turned on the telly, intending to watch a Dave rerun until he felt settled in and could decide what he wanted to order for take-away. Moments later, Sherlock entered the room in his dressing gown, plopped down next to him on the sofa, and pretended to watch the programme with him for a while.

Then, without waiting for an advert or the end to the programme, Sherlock simply blurted, “That massage you gave me was very effective.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’d been accumulating a lot of…tension, recently. And that sort of physical distress might have compromised my performance at a critical moment. Should have seen to it long before.” He paused. “It actually began about six months ago.”

“That’s right about the time we moved in together.”

“It was, wasn’t it,” Sherlock said, as if this coincidence had not occurred to him. He continued to look straight ahead. “In any event, I believe I require another session. Some of that tension has come back.”

“Bound to happen.”

“Not everywhere, mind.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t really feel so much tension in my neck, or my arms, for example.”

John switched off the telly. “I have some time now, if you’d like to show me where precisely you need some more attention.”

A month ago, in a fit of pique, this man had called John in to his bedroom to watch him masturbate, and now he couldn’t say the words “Fuck me.” (Then again, were Sherlock able to articulate all his needs and motivations, John might never have moved in to 221B in the first place. One ought to be introduced gradually to the idea that one was going to be cohabiting with a hoarder of body parts who, when he wasn’t using you as a test subject out of necessity, was doing it purely for his own amusement.)

Sherlock stood and walked toward the bedroom, not beckoning John to follow him because he knew it was unnecessary to do so.

Sherlock dropped his dressing gown with no fanfare, and was wearing nothing underneath. He laid down on top of the duvet and looked up at John as if to hurry him. 

John followed Sherlock’s lead, undressing himself and getting in the bed. The bottle of massage oil, which John had stored in the medicine cabinet, was now back on Sherlock’s bedside table. He felt as if things were happening in a bit of a rush, but he had grown accustomed to doing things Sherlock’s way. And so he did not hesitate to kneel between Sherlock’s legs, scoop up his thighs and place them on his own, and press his palms and fingertips over all the places one would expect to touch a person whom you had in that position.

“This is the area where you’re feeling the tension? Hm?”

“Yes. I thought that the techniques you employed last time were…quite effective, but I’m afraid all that tension has returned.”

Despite Sherlock’s claims of urgent “tension,” his cock lay soft in its nest of pubic curls. Below it, his sack, newly exposed to the cool air of the room, was pulled up tight against his body. The area John was most looking forward to interfering with, however, was the soft crease beneath that. Even with his pelvis tilted and legs spread, Sherlock’s arsehole was still concealed in that crease. John gestured to indicate that he needed the bottle of massage oil, and Sherlock reached behind him to retrieve it and pass it over.

With a slippery hand, John caressed the smooth patch of Sherlock’s perineum, until his fingers naturally slid into that crease and found what he was looking for. So tight; it felt like it would take hours to get that little hole ready to take a cock...and John would relish every minute of it.

John noted Sherlock’s full-body twitch when the first finger slipped all the way inside. “Alright?” he said.

Sherlock answered by folding himself further back, until his knees were above his shoulders. Now his arsehole was in plain sight, and John upturned the bottle and dribbled more oil onto Sherlock’s skin and his own hands, with little care where the excess might run off. He re-inserted a single finger; this time it elicited less surprise. He was careful and slow, ignoring the first two of Sherlock’s demands for “more” and only granting his wish on the third plea. Sherlock’s beautiful pink rim greedily grasped at John’s fingers. He imagined it milking his cock. 

“You know, I’m harbouring some tension, too,” John said. He lifted himself up slightly, lifting Sherlock as well in the process, and with his free hand he displayed his cock for Sherlock. “You’ve got a very eager hole. Do you think it might want this?”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock breathed. “Yes. Now.”

“Soon.” When John looked Sherlock in the eye, to assert his control over the proceedings, he felt something he didn’t expect: a pang of regret. All this time he’d been completely neglecting that face. Oh, to think of the time he could have spent dropping kisses on those cheekbones, nudging those lips open with his tongue, whispering reassurances into those ears. 

_ Later, I promise _ , he answered his own scolding inner monologue. _I’ll spend hours later, but I’m a bit committed to what’s going on down here at the moment._

When it was time, and not a minute before, John slicked his own cock and pressed the head against Sherlock’s entrance. After so much oiling and preparation, it slid in easily, so pliant and slippery was that passage now. 

John looked down, meeting Sherlock’s unfocused gaze, and said, “You might think I don’t understand what’s been going on here. You might not completely understand it yourself. But I know precisely what’s happened to you.”

Each of John’s thrusts pushed the air from Sherlock’s lungs, and each subsequent inhalation was a sob. Nevertheless, Sherlock’s response was clear and just a bit defiant: “Oh? What’s that?”

“Let _me_ take _you_ through it, for once: having been exposed to sexual stimuli, your brain has released a significant quantity of dopamine, which is perpetuating and intensifying the pleasure and desire you felt in the first place. You’re compelled to draw closer to the cause of the release of the dopamine. And once you became sufficiently stimulated, it triggered a release of oxytocin. Dopamine is about pleasure and desire, but oxytocin is about _attachment_. Interacting with the source of an oxytocin release, you naturally develop an affection for it. Those neurotransmitters are clouding your mind, compromising that logic and reason you’re so proud of, filling you with…emotions.” John put his lips against Sherlock’s ear, drawing his legs up yet further, and breathed, “ _You’re in love with me now_.”

Feeling Sherlock’s body suddenly tense, it became apparent to John that this actually was a revelation to Sherlock. He had been making his advances, testing John’s limits and his own, without fully understanding the consequences.

“I’m not sure I want that,” Sherlock said, with a hiccup.

John smiled. “The beauty of it is, you no longer have a choice. It’s already begun. Your insistence on this extended foreplay has prolonged the release of those chemicals, drawing out the pleasure and increasing the opportunities for attachment. But it has to have gone back further than that, because your judgment was obviously already compromised when you invited me into your room that first night.”

Sherlock’s next reaction was not to John’s words, but to his own body. He was close to coming, but he didn’t want to. He sensed that something was about to happen, something precisely along the lines of what John spoke of, and it felt too powerful. He stopped touching himself, but it was no use. He was already too close, and when John lowered himself so that his belly rubbed against Sherlock’s erection, there was no resisting.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. “Are you going to come inside me?”

“That was my plan, yes. Is that alright?”

“Yes. I want that. I want it in me.”

“Picture it in your mind, until you come thinking about it, and then I’ll put it in you.”

Sherlock remembered how his own cock had felt when it pulsed in his hand, and he thought of John’s doing that inside him. “I will,” he panted. “Watch me coming.”

“Yes, I’m getting rather good at that.”

Pinned as he was, Sherlock was barely able to buck or writhe as he came. He made up for it by screaming until he’d finished ejaculating. 

John allowed him to put his legs down, enough to make him more comfortable but still keep John inside him. Sherlock looked drowsy and happy. He stroked John’s arm with all the finesse of someone who was at the “affectionate” stage of drunkenness.

“Oh, John. I never noticed what a beautiful body you have. You just did all that work and your limbs aren’t shaking at all. You’re quite powerful, did you know that?”

John almost grinned smugly, until Sherlock added, “Especially for someone so small.”

John brushed off the comment and said, “I’m going to come inside you now. You wanted that, remember? Because you’ve begun falling in love with me.”

“Mmm.”

And John made good on his promise. He had been so pre-occupied with showing Sherlock a good time, had worked so hard to hold himself back, that when he did allow orgasm to overtake him, it was a relief, more than it could be called “bliss” or “ecstasy.” But what he felt afterwards could go by either of those names. As he collapsed next to Sherlock, he couldn’t hold back his laughter.

“What is it?” Sherlock snapped. “What’s so funny?”

John stifled himself just long enough to declare once again, to himself as much as to Sherlock, “You’re in love with me!”

Sherlock’s mind must have cleared somewhat, as he now had the wherewithal to deny this accusation. “I am not. I don’t fall in love.”

“You’re in love with me. You want to take long walks on the beach with me…”

“That’s moronic, John, you know I hate the beach--”

“I’ll bet you have a diary, and in it you write _Mr Sherlock Holmes-Watson. Mr Sherlock Watson. Sherlock and John Holmes-Watson_ …”

“I do nothing of the kind.”

“You listen to Coldplay and think about me.”

“Your assertions are only becoming more ludicrous.”

“You have a photograph of me and you gaze at it and kiss it.”

“For God’s sake, that was one time! How did you even know?”

John was now a mess of giggles, his face red and tears streaming from his eyes. “‘Salright, though,” he gasped as he dabbed his cheeks with the back of his wrist. “You being in love with me and all. You know why?”

Sherlock waited for John to calm himself completely before replying, “Yes. I know why.”

  
  



End file.
